


Lady of the Wrath

by ariel2me



Series: House Seaworth [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 02:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had spent most of her life waiting. For news. For letters. For ships that reached home too rarely. For sons who would never be home again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lady of the Wrath

“M’lady?”

“Yes?” Marya looked up to see the startled face of Alla their cook. Her tone was too sharp again. She would have to watch herself.

“What is it, Alla?” She said, in a softer tone this time.

Alla began apologizing. Her son Dale, named after Marya’s eldest, had been hunting in the woods with the butcher’s son Emmon. The forest around the keep was swarming with red deer. Her husband and elder sons had hunted there often when they were home, and Davos had allowed the servants to hunt there too. But not the stags, only the does. The stags were rarely seen in the woods, their numbers were small and should not be reduced more, was Davos’ reasoning, but Marya knew that was not the only reason. It was also partly superstition, the way Davos made offerings to the Warrior before going to battle, or to the Smith before launching a ship, even though the gods did not really mean much to him the rest of the time. Hunting a stag would have felt like hunting his liege lord.

The boys swore up and down that they did not see the antlers, they thought they were going after a doe, Alla explained. Only after the arrows had been released, and the animal had gone down that they realized they had killed a stag. The antlers were short and small, Alla pleaded.

“You can see for yourself, m’lady. They’ve brought it back, the stag, it’s in the kitchen right now. I hope his lordship will not be angry, the boys did not mean to defy him. Not on purpose, that is.”

She tried to calm Alla down, telling her it was an honest mistake, that Lord Davos would not blame them for it. But Alla still insisted she came to the kitchen, to look at the antlers herself, to see how easily the boys could have made the mistake.

The servants fearing her disapproval had made Marya uncomfortable in the beginning. She did not think she was an unreasonable or unkind mistress. But then she remembered her own life before she was Lady Marya Seaworth, how everything had felt so dependent on the whims of this lord or that lord. How life could change in an instant, if you accidentally incurred the wrath of a highborn lord or lady.

She and Davos were far from highborn, but they occupied a certain position now, and for her not to see and understand how that position affected how the servants and the smallfolks saw them was willful blindness and shirking of responsibility on her part, Marya finally realized. It was not about her own conduct as mistress of the keep, it was the way things were. And she was always mindful of that. A stray cross word or too sharp a tone, for example, could mean a servant fearing for her livelihood, or even her life, even if to Marya it had not meant anything important, she might be annoyed with something or someone else. 

To pacify Alla’s fear, Marya went down to the kitchen with her. Alla’s Dale - she could not say that name aloud these days without thinking of _her_ Dale - and Emmon the butcher’s son were standing at the back wall, both slouching, eyes downcast, looking guilty. They straightened up immediately when they saw her, a chorus of “M’lady” greeting her. She walked to Dale and pushed back the hair falling across his face. A boy about two years older than her Devan. Still very young. She smiled and said, “Don’t worry, your mother already told me what happened.” He smiled tentatively in reply, but said nothing.

Emmon, the older of the two boys, was the one who spoke. “The stag must have just shed his antlers, and the new one just started growing. That’s why they’re so short and small, m’lady.” Marya nodded at him, and followed him to the butcher’s table where they had put the carcass. They had taken the arrow out, but she could see the mark through his throat clearly. The stag must have died almost instantaneously.

“It was a good shot,” she said, looking at Emmon. He was the much better hunter of the two.

“It wasn’t my arrow, m’lady. Mine missed the mark completely. It was Dale’s.”

The antlers were indeed very short, she could see how the boys could missed it from a distance.

“Well, nothing to be done now, we might as well eat the meat,” Marya said.

“But … his lordship?” Alla’s voice was still fearful.

 _You have nothing to fear from him, Alla. Especially now_ , she thought.

“His lordship did not want people hunting the stags on purpose, because they are rare. But this is an accident.”

Marya could see another thought flashing through Alla’s mind. “The Baratheons eat stag meat too,” she said kindly. Alla looked surprised, her cheeks reddening. “It should be butchered now before the meat goes bad,” Marya continued.

“I’ll get father,” Emmon said.

Marya was staring at the stag’s head. Eyes closed, he looked so at peace it infuriated her suddenly. That look of almost calm acceptance of death felt like a mockery to her.

_You should have run faster, or hide better._

“No, I will do it myself,” she said impulsively. Her words were greeted with the look of shock on three faces. “I have done this before, you know,” she smiled. “I was not always the fancy, helpless lady. And Emmon can help me.”

It was Alla who replied. “Of course, m’lady, but now you are a lord’s wife, not just a knight’s wife. Not for you a dirty task like this.”

Dale was watching Marya’s face. She did not know what he saw there, but he finally said, “Lady Marya knows what’s what, mother. Leave her to it.” Alla reluctantly followed her son out.

“I’ll get the knives and cleaver,” Emmon said.

They started with removing the innards, Emmon pulling out the intestines and the stomach, Marya removing the liver, lungs and heart. The heart should still feel quite warm, the stag had not been dead for long, but the weather had turned cold, winter was coming, and it felt really cold in her hands. _But still warmer than the heart of that man with a stag as his sigil_ , she thought. No, not just a stag now, a stag inside the flaming heart of the Lord of Light.

Stannis had written to her after the battle at Blackwater Bay, telling her Devan was safe, but Davos and her four sons were missing, presumed dead. _Don’t hold out any hope_ , he had said, in his usual blunt way, _no one had come back who was lost._ The letter had no words of condolences or sympathy, which she had not expected anyway, as she had not expected the letter. The words and the name were written by the same hand. His own hand, she presumed, and not a maester.

“M’lady?” Emmon’s voice jolted her. She looked down at her hands and realized she was still holding the heart. Emmon was holding out a bowl, she put the heart in it.

The next step was cutting off the feet, she recalled. “What does your father tell you about cutting off the feet?”

“It must be done cleanly at the joints, and we must not break or shatter the bones, because the marrow inside the bones could spread an illness, m’lady.”

“Very good, Emmon.” The boy was learning well from his father, soon it would be time to find him a position of his own.

She felt around the bones and cartilages to find the joint, finally found it, and was about to bring the cleaver down when she thought of someone else bringing a cleaver down on joints. Finger joints instead of feet. She hesitated, and the cleaver stayed mid-air, without reaching its destination.

“M’lady? Would you like me to do it?”

_Let him do it, you don’t have to do this yourself._

But she would not, she would see this through to the end.

“I will do it myself. But thank you, Emmon,” she said, smiling slightly.

“Only, my father said-“

“You must not hesitate when bringing the cleaver down.”

“Yes, m’lady, or it will not be a clean cut.”

She steeled herself. Her hand was steady, not shaking at all, and she brought the cleaver down quickly. The foot came off cleanly, as did the other three.

Davos’ wound had healed by the time he came back to her. The maester had taken good care of it, he said, and the lord was very good with the cleaver. He carried the finger bones with him always. For luck.

 _I lost them at Blackwater Bay, Marya. I lost our luck, and our sons. Forgive me,_ he had written to her. 

 _Not your fault, my love. And we make our own luck_ , she had written back.

That was the letter from Davos confirming their sons’ death, or really the letter written by Devan, but containing her husband’s words. She had found it strange reading her husband’s words in Devan’s writing. Davos’ letters had usually been from Matthos’ hand, who served with his father on Black Betha.

She would never read a letter written in Matthos’ hand again. Her shy son, whose letters to her were only short notes scribbled below his father’s words, who always told her everything was fine, who never complained about anything. Who blushed and shied away when she embraced him in front of his brothers, but who always came to her room, alone, before leaving home, and hugged her long and hard.

Allard’s letters were the ones full of complaints, but that was how she find out about most things. Her second-born, her wildest, most unruly son, the one her husband was convinced was set for the Wall or even worse fate, if not for Stannis and all he had given them. Marya was not so convinced; Allard always knew how far he could go.

Allard with his girl in Oldtown and his girl in King’s Landing and his girl in Braavos, not the wife that she had hoped for him and nagged him about. She regretted the nagging and scolding now. What did it matter, as long as he was happy? As long as he did not mistreat them. His last letter to her had ended with a request - if he does not come back from the battle, will she write to them? _I know they are not in the same position as Dale’s wife, but they are to me, in our own way._

She had written to them, just like she had written to Dale’s wife.

Dale. Her firstborn, conceived that first night, for Davos left the very next day and did not come home until 3 moons later, by which time she already knew she was with child. Davos had been touchingly surprised, and proud.

“One time? We made a child after one time?”

“Well, it was not one time,” she reminded him. “One night, but more than one time.”

He had laughed, a warm, full-throated laugh, touched her still-flat belly, put his head close to it and whispered softly, “Your mother and I will have many sons and daughters, so you will have many brothers and sisters to play with, my child. And you will have many sons and daughters of your own one day.”

There had been no sister for Dale. And he would never have any son or daughter of his own. Dale, her proud boy who had been more than content captaining a ship. Not for him a knighthood. “Not for my sons either, Mother,” he had told her once, out of his father’s hearing. “The sea is where we belong.” He still thought of himself as a Shorthand deep down, not a Seaworth.

Maric had dreamt of a knighthood. Her son who had the easiest time adjusting to the change in their circumstances, from a smuggler’s son to the son of a landed knight. The whispers and smirks from the highborn lords and knights never seemed to bother him as it had bothered his brothers. All the whispers that Davos Seaworth and his family stank of onions and salted fish, that the smuggler had bought his knighthood with a few measly onions, he shrugged them all aside. “Let them prattle,” Maric would say, unconcerned. “We will be knights ourselves someday, and our sons and daughters will wed their sons and daughters, and they will be proud of it. We will make them.” Maric, whose fierce pride and determination were hidden behind the easy laughs and smiles.

She and Emmon were working side-by-side, skinning the stag from neck down. Without its hide, the flesh underneath exposed, the stag looked pathetic.

_Not so grand and mighty now, are you?_

Before she lost her sons, she had thought grief felt like losing your skin, raw and exposed, vulnerable to the world. But it turned out not to be like that at all, at least not for her. It was more like she had developed a thicker coat of skin, and nothing could really touch her anymore. Oh, she did and said all the right things to all the words of condolences and sympathy. But even with other mothers who had lost children of their own, she could not say that she understood their pain, or that they understood hers. Her grief was her own, just as their grief was their own. There was no kinship in grief, she discovered. Not even with her own husband, she was finally willing to admit now.

_We shared the loss, but not the grief._

She had heard all the stories from the few survivors coming back to the Stormlands after the battle, about the chains and the wildfire. Which of her sons burned to death? Which of them drowned in the murky water of Blackwater Bay? The thought jolted her out of her sleep night after night. Also the thought of her husband and Devan being there, watching as their sons and brothers perished. The thought of them lying awake night after night, reliving the memory, kept her awake too.

Devan, her oldest son now. Devan, who looked so much like Dale at that age they could have been twins. Devan, who had grown up much too soon, who had been in battles and seen men dying horribly at eleven. Devan, whose letters to her were always about his worries about everyone else.

_Father is having a hard time learning to read. Should I offer to help him? He might feel slighted, as if I think I am better than him._

_They’ve taken Edric Storm somewhere. Princess Shireen is sad and lonely again._

_His Grace is not eating. I wish the cook here is as good as Alla._

_Mother, do Steff and Stanny dream about our brothers?_

_They do, my son. They dream of your dead brothers, and of you and your father too._ She had never written those words to him.

“They will never come back, Father and Devan,” Stanny had cried out one day, out of the blue. “We will never see them again, ever, just like Dale. And Allard. And Matthos. And Maric.”

Steff, her youngest, had raged hearing that. “That’s not true! Tell him it’s not true, Mother! They will come back.” Pleading tearful eyes looking at her. “Won’t they?”

She wanted the earth to swallow her whole, the sea to devour her completely. She had no words of comfort or reassurance to give her sons. No empty promises to soothe their worries. She did the only thing she could, gathered them in her arms. They stayed like that, locked in an embrace, the three of them, for what felt like an eternity.

 _We are here, we have each other still_. She repeated that like a mantra.

They had finished skinning the stag. Emmon was cleaning the knives before they started removing the meat.

There had been another letter from Stannis, received just the day before, telling her of Davos’ fate at White Harbor. Another short letter, just the facts, no sentiment or words of condolences, written in a maester’s hand this time. Except the name, and the words scrawled beneath his name, she recognized that from the other letter as his own writing.

_I will avenge his death, my lady. He has served me loyally, and he was a better man than most._

She raged at his mention of loyalty. _Look what his loyalty to you has brought him._ Stannis had given them everything, her husband had said often, but they had given him plenty in return. 

Alla’s Dale was the only one who saw her after she read the letter. He knew immediately from her expression.

“Is it Devan, m’lady?”

She shook her head.

“His lordship, then. I’m so sorry, m’lady.”

“Don’t tell my sons yet, or anyone else. I will do it myself when I am ready.”

“Of course, m’lady.”

She wondered now if Dale had actually seen the antlers, but released the arrow anyway.

They were down to removing the meat, Emmon could do that on his own. She had a duty to perform, something she should have already done. She had lost four sons and a husband, but she was still a mother. And the mistress of the keep. Lady Marya Seaworth of Rainwood. Of Cape Wrath.

Her sons first, and then the rest of the household.

She went up to her sons’ room after washing up and changing her clothes. Gathered them in her arms and whispered softly. “I have something to tell you, boys."


End file.
